Silk - Caitlin R. Kiernan [150]
“Can we just sit here a minute?” and Mort sighed, big, exhausted puff of white breath. “We might not have a choice,” he replied.
“I don’t suppose you happened to grab my bass on your way out?”
“There wasn’t time, Dar,” he said. “I’m sorry. Maybe it’ll be okay.”
“Maybe,” and she pulled another drag off the Marlboro.
“Are you sure you’re feelin’ all right?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Sure. Just a little freaked out, that’s all.” And quick, before she could talk herself out of asking, “If you can get the van started, will you drive me to Spyder’s house?”
An astonished, disgusted sound from Theo, and “Christ, why in hell would you want to see Spyder Baxter?”
“I don’t want to see Spyder. I need to know if Niki’s okay.”
Mort made a doubtful face, doubt and worry, and he looked as bad as she felt, almost. “Wouldn’t it be a better idea to call?”
“No, Mort. I need to see her. With my eyes. Just a simple yes or no, okay? I think maybe it’s important.”
“I think maybe Mort hit you a lot harder than he intended,” Theo said, and Mort glanced back at her, annoyed you’re-not-making-this-any-easier frown.
“‘Important’ how, Dar?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Look, it’s probably nothing, okay,” and she thought about Walter, again, had been thinking about him a lot the last couple of hours: rumpled and bleary-eyed, shivering in the alley behind Keith’s, fear like fresh scars on his pale, thin face. The things he’d said, the things she hadn’t let him say. “But I need to get some rest, and I don’t think I can sleep until I know Niki’s all right.”
“After that scene between you and Spyder last night, it just doesn’t seem like such a bright—”
“Please, Mort. I swear I’m not gonna hit her.”
Mort rubbed at his forehead above his eyebrows, like he was getting a headache. “It’s not you I’m worried about, Dar,” and he gave the ignition another try. This time the shitmobile belched and grumbled, carburetor hack and piston hem, and the engine growled to life.
“Yeah, sure.” He sighed. “Why the hell not,” and Mort released the parking brake and wrestled the stick into reverse.
“Thanks, Mortie.” And she leaned over, hugged him, little kiss against his stubbly cheek.
“Yippee,” Theo groaned behind them, “Yippee-fucking-ki-yay.” The van lurched backwards, tried to stall, but Mort pushed the clutch down to the floor. And Daria watched the beam of the headlights and the numbers painted on the wall, the banks of phony jaundiced daytime overhead, until they were out of the parking deck and under the city night again.
2.
Spyder sat on a wobbly stool by the bedroom window, no light but a candle on the floor, and she listened to the gentle, restless sounds of Niki sleeping, asleep for hours now, and Spyder had noticed that she’d been taking pills from her Klonopin script for days. Traffic sounds from outside, another place too far off to be of consequence anymore, and the noises from the basement, and the noises from the yard. Her face hurt, swollen lips, black eye, and another pain, inside, pain that meant more than broken skin and bruises.
“I don’t think I can stay much longer,” Niki had said that afternoon, after they’d fucked. “I can’t take much more of this.”
“What do you want?” Spyder had said, knowing the answer, playing the game as if she didn’t.
“I want you to get help. I want you to tell your doctor what you told me. I want you to tell her about the body you hid in the fucking basement.”
“Or you’ll leave.”
“I love you, Spyder. It’s not what I want.”
And then she’d rolled over, and Spyder had gotten up and gone to piss. When she’d come back, Niki was already asleep, so Spyder had sat down on the stool, thinking about the hospital and its sterile, numbing tortures, idiot questions from people who got paid to listen. And then she’d thought about being left alone in the house, alone with the house, and herself, everyone dead or gone away somewhere else. Nothing left but long